thoughts on the book.. the bush dyslexicon

I am reading the bush dyslexicon; basically rails against Bush, with no compunction at all about repeating the more scurrilous tidbits. W is dum, there is no doubt about that. He is also smart in some ways... like a slick salesman, but mostly he is a cheerleader and a liar and a petty bigot who feels blessed by god to lead the entire known universe and no matter how we turn off the tv when his evil face pops onto the screen, protest, or even vote, this boof is now representing the fucking free world.

The prof. who wrote the book I am reading tries to distance himself from the humorists who play bush like a fool, a benign, hapless innocent, like Homer. He is certainly the Homer of presidents. This book basically says that he doesn¢t compare to the other presidents in terms of skill, memory, compassion, and all around intelligence. He is the rich boy psychopath; only his god can judge him, not petty human beings. This is the same thinking that made his father practically lead Iran contra (by his own admission, he was the most informed about the mission, though he later changed to ¡disremembering¢ the events, when time came to pay the piper... you know rich people, they seldom have to pay the piper; most of the time in life, piper¢s can be paid off with money, especially if you are a rich celebrity murderer or child fucker, of course (massah jackoffyoursons childish ways come to mind, and the for all intents and purposes almost (and only almost) noble slaughter by Robert Blake of his ¡Polaroid shots in the mail to lonely bachelors¢ kind of slut wife, who was obviously going to be a terrible influence on the kids life. I guess she was known for going up to celebrities and asking them for a signature, and when they said yes, she would say, "Can you sign that with sperm in my cunt??" Or so I am convinced not so much by evidence, so much as whimsy).


Back to the book, the bush dyslexicon. I can¢t really recommend this book as a fun read. It is not fun, not the hundredth time the president sounds like an evil maniac because of some slip of his always stumbling tongue . . . Like the writer warns ya early on, this book is a political statement in a political world, a comment on the of truth in a media where a few catch phrases can statistically raise one¢s chances of election much more so than laying out an actual policy.

Language is how we tell others what we are, how we see the world, what we feel is right and wrong. A president should be more precise and better read, though not for the childish reasons the w thinks, which is "to quote back at them bastards," but for something that he precisely does not have because of his aversion to thinking and reading at the same time -- a soul softened by the empathy that leads men to true greatness..


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My neighbor thinks he is from outer space....

We were sitting in his dim apartment, in the middle of the afternoon, me on his black leather couch and him on a folding lounge chair striped yellow and white. Mitch was drunk. He has dark pouches under his eyes, skinny as a rail, his face always gloomy and ethereally white under his dark black hair. His eyes are the blue of wolves and huskies, not human. They lit up as he held a lighter over a bong and pulled in a hit.




?Man, your eyes are not human. ?




?Oh, yea? I made a few mistakes when I was putting together this human.? His voice is quiet and has no modulation at all, which does make him speak in a way that is other-worldly.




?Oh, well, that makes perfect sense. Frankenfuckingstein.?




?You are the most bitter human I have met.?




?Thank you.?




? If I was visible in this room, in my at rest form, I would look like a sliver of light. You wouldn¢t notice me.?




?Glad ya grew some flesh, then, I guess.?




?You would be surprised by? There are aliens all around us all the time. You either can¢t see them, or don¢t notice them as anything out of the ordinary.?









I remembered something about scientology and thirty aliens being in all humans. ?So, you¢re a scientologist then, that type of alien. The kind who pays thousands and thousands of dollars to blank eyed fools so they can hypnotize you all good and meaningful into a little made up life all your own, shielded from all facts, and all that nasty reality,¢ ?Shit, no? I don¢t expect you to believe this. In fact, I would think less of you if you did.?




This sounded too sane to be coming from a man who had just told me he was an




alien. Figuring he was going to let me in on the joke any second, I added, ?So what¢s your mission here? To drink a lot and smoke weed, maybe get into some Nugent??




?I wish I had a mission. That would be fun.?




?So you crash landed??




?No? there is no? I¢m actually a sliver of something that would look like light to you. We don¢t use ships. No one does, except, as far as I know, you humans. I made this human after studying mammals for a few minutes and then I grew the flesh. A long time ago.?




?What, like millions of years ago??




?You expect too much from aliens.?




?Yea, aliens and women, both.?




?I¢m forty nine and three quarters old.?




?Oh.?




?You have any more questions??




?Uh . . . do you eat humans?? I started laughing, but his face just kept the odd stillness and no inflections crept into his words to reveal a deeper current of moods.




?No. I hate discussing it. The people who believe me are often? odd.?




?I¢ll bet they are. I¢d leave this fucking second if you were serious.?




?No, you know I¢m serious. You just want me to be insane. That will require less effort on your part.?




?Yeah, well you got that right. You really believe this shit??




?It¢s not a question of belief, just what is.?




?To you, maybe? the rest of us are pretty unconvinced, okay?? I stood up and stretched. ?So, you do any miracles??




?No miracles.?




?How about some magic trick? You got to offer people some proof that you are an alien. No one is just going to believe you, except, like you said, the nuts.?




?And people in cults. They are easy to convince.?




?




End
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

The w spent the hour before the weekly briefing thinking about ways to get back at what he thought of as, Them damn quoters. He hated people who used quotes more than anything else that he could just then think of that pissed him off. As soon as Cheney and the others sat down in their chairs, he opened his official writing pad, the one he had put the presidential seal all over both sides of the blue cover, and read, Here is the damned problem, you seee? Quoters. Those bastards who think it is cool and learned to memorize some damn passages. Next time I am talking to some bastard head of some bastard state, and they throw a quote out at me, I want to be able to quote right back at these bastards. Quotes? Yea, quotes, damn them. They¢re like snapping some guys ass with a towel in the shower. You got to fight sting with sting in a situation like that, and I say so with, do not forget, the full force of the frigging army, of the states of united America.










Sir, umm, not to beat a dead horse, but I have to say again, it is, The United States Of America?





What I say, dammit!





States of the united America.





Is that one of them god damn hand held phones?





Yes, sir. I can play this back to you, when you deny? well, when we discuss this.





Goddamnit, give me that? The W pointed down at the recorder, his face showing a look of disgust he usually reserved for enemies of state.





Sir, it¢s got a lot of notes on there.





Are you refusing a direct order from the commander and chief, which is an act of high treason and I have read recently, I can have any body shot, if shotting is needed.




What?





He can do it.? Cheney barked out from the largest chair in the room, He can have you dead, now. I¢ll do it. Strangle your ass. Don¢t test me, I read a few books about Vietnam.





Vietnam, huh? The W interjected. He stood up and walked over to the window, clasped his hands behind his back, and in a voice which the W considered heavy, he told the gathering, I¢m been thinking maybe I¢m, uh, yeah, you know, having flash backs to Vietnam.











The group of suited men sitting around the table all looked up from their notes and computers. W¢s words had stunned the assembly into silence. No one wanted to be the first to speak, since none of them had actually been in any wars, though all had profited heartily in some way from them in the past, and actually going to vietnam was not a topic any of them liked being discussed. Yea, it¢s hell. The W added. Pure hell.








The Cheney, as he thought of himself, finally had to speak up, Sir, I . . . didn¢t know you were in Nam? The Cheney asked him in a very wary voice, as he silently went over in his mind the plan he had to assassinate the w and take control, should the w ever get too insane to handle. He had been watching for signs of this dementia since he entered the oval office, always prepared for his chance to take control? he once wrote in one of his secret journals that he had masterbated to the thought, much to the chagrin of his ¡not often enough for her tastes¢ serviced wife.





Yea, the W told them, We¢ll just see. I think I was in Vietnam, whether I remember it or not. I was drunk a lot, probably doing other shit, like doobie smoking, toot, whatever the hell they had over there to get a good one on, you know?


















A General to the W¢s right also had a plan to get rid of the president, though only in the case of that being absolutely necessary and his wife agrees. His wife had forced him to agree to the last part, one night after he told her about the plan. He got off on taking orders from her while she vacated her bladder over his feet, and since they actually both enjoyed this experience, they felt like they were meant for each other. The general could not be happier, and wanted to hold on to that woman at all costs? and he was pretty sure the w would go crazy, and cheney and the others above him on that oh so short chain of command who get unfortunately bombed by some crazy arab kids he was keeping in a van out back of the local ROTC building, all hopped up on coke and meth and chanting death to America pig breathed infidel buts. He put his hand on the but of his gun and felt a tinge of electricity cross through his right testicle. ?

Mr. President, uh,, mean. W you were not, according to existing records, in Vietnam. However should you wish to have such paperwork delivered to your office, that can be arranged asap, Sir. Dammmit, I forgot to say sir all those times before this? so, here, let me just say, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir.





I think you missed one, hoss.





Uhmm, yes, mr. president sir. Sir.





Now, as far as my time in the jungles of that hot hell. Remember them jackets that said something like, I been to Vietnam, so hell ain¢t so bad. Something to hell like that. Get me one of those. A couple, for when I spill stuff. My time in those dear, forgivingly jungle hostels. Eatin, rats. Probably. Everything is classified about this topic, all need to know. I was doing secret fucking missions. Nobody used. Hell, I had a double that filled in for me here.





Uhm, sir, is this a joke?





Are you saying Viet-fucking-nam was a joke?





Well, no?





W. The w. I was one mother fucker over there. Hell, I may have killed some babies or something when I was drunk. Man, I could tell stories, and I will. I got me a source feeding me the true stuff, shit you guys don¢t even know. That¢s what it¢s like to be the president of only the whole free fucking world!!





Cheney put down his reading material, the latest tv guide, and asked, Who told this to you, sir?





One of them CIA guys.





Which one, sir?





They all look the same. I have told you that so many damn times, Dick.





Sir, it is possible that someone has played a trick on you.





Cheney, listen, I can rewrite history, right? Like we talked about. So, why not this too? Make them believe goddamn it, and make it a law that no one can question this story. You know, send some boys over and kick some journalistic ass, or refuse somebody to some damn dance or something, whatever you have to do.





So, you made up the CIA agent?





I have no comment on that matter at this time.





The W looked down at the hand held recorder and remembered that he was going to smash the damn thing if anyone used it to correct him again? without that evidence, he could just deny whatever they said he said, like he always did. Give me that goddamn thing?





Sir, I have a lot of notes on that recorder. Please?





I just want to look at it.







The owner of the offending recorder turned to Cheney, Dick, please?









He just wants to look at it. Cheney told him with a smile that he liked to think of as classic chaney, which he had practiced for what would amount to almost six and a half year of his life.





He said that before and, well, he made that too classified to discuss, didn¢t he?





That did not happen.

W¢s cry was soon followed by a chorus of denial from all around the table. Never happened, and, That man is breaking a law by bringing that up, and other variations of groveling words.





Give me that piece of junk.





Okay.






The W bounces the hand held recorder on his palm, watches the tiny black tape spin around inside as he talks, This damn thing has caused me enough trouble. Trouble. Trouble is sitting here too damn long. The recorder falls out his hand and onto the table as he motions toward the door, I¢m going to go someplace else now. And do some president stuff.














THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.